Journey
by CierraLuv97
Summary: "How could she be angry with him when she had done the very thing that he was afraid of, and almost kissed his best friend?" One-shots about everything from warm friendship to raw heartbreak.
1. Table of Contents

_Hello, everyone, it's Cierra here. Now, as you probably saw in the summary, this is a collection of one-shots. __Duh. And in case you didn't see, this chapter is not one of the one-shots. Since there are several different one-shots in this collection, and the themes, characters, and plots can vary greatly, I decided to give you guys a table of contents. I have listed each one-shot, along with a quick plot summary and the main characters (these characters aren't necessarily a pairing - just the central characters)_.

_After each summary, I have also listed the songs I recommend listening to__. Songs are like stories with music, and I felt these songs really fit the stories. I put a lot of thought into which song goes with what story, and I think heading over to YouTube and playing these songs while you read really helps you get into the mood. __I know it seems like a lot of effort, but they are really some beautiful songs, and they really improve the reading experience._

**Table of Contents**

**1. Is This Love, _a Hermione and Harry one-shot_**

He left. He walked on them, and more importantly, he walked out on _her_. And while anger can make her feel better for a while, Hermione knows she will ultimately end up with nothing at all.

_"Jar of Hearts" by Christina Perri_

**2. Ginny, Stay Strong, _a Ginny and Hermione one-shot_**

Ginny has known Harry would eventually leave to hunt down Voldemort. But when it sinks in, and at the worst time possible, it will take yet another person who is leaving to pull Ginny back to safety.

_"Dear John" by Taylor Swift_

**3. The Reality Found In A Bathroom, _a Hermione one-shot_**

Bathrooms may not seem like the most likely home of deep thoughts, but as Hermione reflects on the Horcrux hunt, she finds that everything is much closer in a bathroom, and more real.

_"Daydreamer" by Adele_

**4. That Boy, _a Ron and Hermione one-shot_**

Ron never truly forgave Draco for what he did to him, Hermione, and Harry all those years ago. To see Draco's son waltzing with his daughter – it will take fiery words and a kiss to make Ron realise that some things do change.

_"Somewhere Over The Rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole_

**5. The Questions, _a Molly and Ginny one-shot_**

All children must grow up. That much is true. But, with one son estranged from his family and another directly in the line of fire, Molly finds herself missing her children when they were young, and innocent, and asked questions.

_"Safe & Sound" by Taylor Swift_

**6. So Not Over, _a Hermione and Lavender one-shot_**

If Harry thought that Hogwarts was all about defeating Voldemort, he should see what happens in a girls' dormitory when a certain red-headed boy comes up in conversation.

_"Gives You Hell" by All American Rejects OR by the cast of Glee_

**7. A Night Like Tonight, _a Lily and James one-shot_**

On a summer night where everything is shimmery and enchanting and beautiful, Lily somehow ends up breaking the rules – and having a very strange yet very real conversation with a certain James Potter.

_"Hallelujah" by Rufus Wainwright_

**8. Just Breathe, _a Hermione one-shot_**

Memories make us who we are. And taking them away gives us a burden that is near impossible to carry.

_"Hometown Glory" by Adele_

**9. ****Sometimes, She Cried Herself to Sleep, **_**a multiple character one-shot**_

There are the the moments we see that defines someone in our minds. But it may be possible that the ones we don't see, the ones that happen in the darkest moments, that really show what a person is made of.

_"As You Turn Away" by Lady Antebellum_

**10. Half-Hearted, _a Hermione __one-shot_**

We all know what happens in the end - but what about the middle? With Ron gone and her and Harry on the verge of something _more_, Hermione sits down to reflect on why she could so easily love Harry, and why she really does love Ron.

_"Forever & Always" by Taylor Swift (Piano Version)  
><em>

**_Thanks so much, and now - on to the one-shots!_**


	2. Is This Love

**Is This Love**

He had no reason to leave. There was no excuse for his walking away, his deserting them. That was a cold, solid fact.

And that fact was a blessing.

These days - or had it only been hours, not even a day, since he had left? - anger was, for Hermione, easier to come by, easier to hold on. Clutching at that one comfort, the fact that she had a right to be angry, made everything more bearable. It made her feel like she was actually doing something, instead of sitting around, struggling to look anywhere but where she was staring at the moment.

Of course, it was perfectly ridiculous. But since when had anything about _him_ been logical?

She had to work at it. Every time she found herself starting to think his name, she'd quickly think of her parents. It was difficult (how can you tell yourself not to think of something without thinking of it?) but necessary, for only decent people, good people, deserved names, and it was so hard to be angry with someone who had a name and a family and goals and hopes and dreams…

Sometimes, the anger was easier to find than others. Sometimes, it was surges and surges of white hot rage that left her stock still, her eyes become wet with indignant tears. Those were the good times.

But at other moments, like now, as she sat on a stool and stared at his radio, it was difficult. She felt like she was drowning, flailing for a rescue she knew wouldn't come. She felt like she was on fire, reaching for a bucket of water that was just out of reach. It was as though she was tearing completely apart. The dying, rational part of her brain only had time to beg _Is this love? _to any invisible listening personbefore giving into despair.

_He knew what he was getting himself into -_

None of you did -

_We all had an idea, we all knew it was going to be tough -_

He was angry at both you and Harry, he acted without thinking -

_He should've come back, why didn't he come back -_

He thought you wouldn't take him back -

_He's just being an idiot -_

You've always thought that, and it didn't bother you before, not in your sixth year -

_He was and is a jerk -_

- and now he knows what it's like to be second best, he thinks you've chosen his best mate over him -

_Don't say that - _

Even her thoughts started to sound anguished and choked, and Hermione felt her control slip. She was gone, spiralling, falling, and the ground was speeding towards her at a speed so fast it was surreal, and she had no time to prepare, because she was going to crack when she hit it -

Two hands had appeared in front of her, pushing themselves through her half-crazed thoughts. She stared blankly at them for a moment, then, remembering Harry, placed her own small hands in them. He pulled her up, and, after watching her seriously for a beat, reached around her neck and pulled the Horcrux up over her head.

Hermione felt the cold leave her skin, and the madness leave her thoughts. _It was the Horcrux making me slip like that, _she thought, making a desperate stab at relief, though she knew that the Horcrux was only feeding on the thoughts she already had

There was a quiet thud, and she saw that Harry had dropped the Horcrux on a bunk. She looked up at him for an answer, and was momentarily confused by how stiff and unused her face felt.

He was crouched fiddling with the radio, turning the knobs this way and that, and Hermione just had time to feel a swell of gratitude towards Harry before the very anger that she was grateful for overtook her.

_He shouldn't be touching that - he's got no right, it belonged to - _and an image of her mother's face on her father's birthday swelled inside of her to beyond normal size.

The anger was more feeble than usual, true, but it was better than nothing, and she clung to it with fierce determination.

He stopped touching the radio, and an old song Hermione remembering hearing at a family barbeque played. Harry began to move to the music, moving her arms around as he danced.

She tried to stubbornly hold it back, but a smile escaped her lips and fluttered, breaking through the still and solemn feel of the day with its delicate wings. It felt so good, and it was much easier, so she gave into it, dancing around the tent with Harry.

It was a mixture of waltzing and pure teenage instinct, and Hermione was reminded as they twirled around of the Yule Ball. Just like then, she had no idea how to dance, but it didn't matter, and she was spinning around and laughing, and she would until -

Her father's expression when she mentioned Viktor inviting her to spend the summer with him came to mind.

A few more twists, spins, and laughs later, she'd managed to forget about almost thinking his name. It was innocent, goofy, beautiful fun, the type of fun she hadn't had in a while. Harry was laughing too as he wrapped his arms around her and twirled her out. Her face, which had been stiff before, felt wonderfully tired as she giggled when he nearly sent her flying. She was gasping for breath as he pulled her back in. As the music started to slow down and get quiet, they went into a very clumsy waltz position - they could've been hugging - and simply swayed.

Being with Harry is so easy, she found herself thinking, resting her chin on his shoulder. It was true. With Harry, there was no tension over the tiniest of actions, no worry that he would take what she said to mean something different. Dancing with Harry was like dancing with her brother -

_See, he had no reason to leave, _she thought in what could be considered a happy way. She smiled to herself, and she relaxed into Harry -

_He had no reason to leave_. With a feeling that felt like poisoned candy settling into her stomach, she wondered what a tall, lanky boy with sunset coloured hair and eyes the colour of wishes would look like if he saw this moment.

His eyes wouldn't realize what they would seeing. He'd blink. Then, in a split second, heartbreak would be etched on his face. He'd blink again. He'd try to cover up his pain with anger. He'd tried to convince himself he didn't need them. He'd blink. He'd know that he had been right all along, that Harry and Hermione really were better off without him. He'd blink. And blink again, his beautiful eyes starting to drown. The boy -

His name was Ron. Hermione didn't want to be angry with him anymore. It was killing her.

She pulled her head off Harry's shoulder slowly, an emotion so strong that it was unrecognizable coursing through her veins. His eyes met hers. His face had an expression on it which she knew must mirror her own; muted horror, creeping guilt, and a sadness normally associated with death.

She took a step back, away from Harry, away from dancing, away from everyone, and sat silently down on the stool by the radio.

* * *

><p><strong>Like it? Love it? Hate it? Tell me whatever the case. I'd also like to know what you think the message is I'm trying to send to my readers, because I honestly don't know. I would quote John Lennon right now, except I don't know the exact words... yeah, awkward (turtle). Oh, and I'm publishing this at ten-thirty at night, so there will probably be loads of mistakes, so I'd really appreaciate it if you could all play Beta and point them out (believe it or not, I like it when people point out my flaws). <strong>

**Brownie points to anyone who listened to "Jar of Hearts" while reading this (such an AMAZING song).**

**~ Cierra, **who rules the world behind everyone's back


	3. Ginny, Stay Strong

**Ginny, Stay Strong**

The wedding was finally here.

The window in the bathroom was open, and Ginny could smell the scent of roses and champagne wafting in, a smell that perfectly fit beautiful, goddess-like Fleur.

She should be down there. Her golden low-cut dress with a ruffled skirt was on, and she couldn't help secretly loving it. Her hair was up in an twist that was elegant (by Fleur's book, anyway; Ginny really just thought it looked like a bun that had been rustled by sleep. Then again, she wasn't French, beautiful, or getting married, so it didn't particularly matter or surprise her). Her make-up had been applied with care. There were no more excuses she could make to stay holed up in the bathroom. She was ready.

Physically, anyway. Emotionally, she was terrified and heartbroken and jealous. Too many things that a sixteen year old girl shouldn't be resigned to feel, and yet she was.

A bubble of laughter came from the open window, and such a strong feeling of jealousy surged into her throat that it felt like hatred. How very much she wanted to be Bill! To have lived, loved, and experienced all that he had without the terror of war… to have lived long enough to propose, to get married -

A unexpected image of a girl who was faceless, but she somehow knew to be pretty, in a white dress and veil, standing at an alter with a tall boy with jet black hair and emerald green eyes…

The overwhelming and all too recognizable pain exploded inside her gut, so intense it almost physically hurt. As it was, she gasped, sliding down the wall and no doubt completely ruining the thrilling splendour of the dress.

_I'm not going to cry_, she found herself thinking out of habit, and the thought burned her. She knew that one of the things Harry liked about her was that she was strong, and didn't succumb to tears nearly as often as his old girlfriend, Cho, had. And she knew that crying wasn't going to solve anything.

But constantly holding it in won't make him stay.

As soon as she thought it, she realized that a irrational, almost completely hidden part of subconscious had been thinking exactly that. It had to be the reason why, any of the few times in the past week she felt herself starting to lose it, she'd worked twice as hard as she ever had to keep it together.

Ginny's breathing was steadily getting more ragged. She swallowed air, still trying, for some reason, to not fall apart. _He's leaving,_ she insisted inside of herself, not sure what she was trying to do. _They're all leaving. Just give up. Go ahead, cry. He's going no matter what. Give up._

"No!" she whispered desperately aloud without really meaning to. Then, as if they had been the entire time, salt water was dripping down her face, steady as a river.

She didn't particularly know what to do. She hadn't cried, really cried, in so long. It felt foreign on her face, and the rest of her just felt desperately vulnerable, like something had been shattered. Someone might've flippantly suggested that it had been her heart, but the damage was much graver than that.

Moments, or minutes, or hours later, more laughter came from the window, and Ginny stood up, suddenly in a panic. The wedding! She needed to get control of herself. Stumbling, she made her way to the sink, gripping the counter ferociously and staring at the mirror. Her resolve shook.

The mirror in front of her couldn't lie, yet Ginny was suddenly sure that the girl in the beautiful dress staring back at her with the broken eyes couldn't be her. Her skin was too pale, the area around her eyes smudged black from make-up, her arms too tense. The fear on the girl's face was enough to frighten Ginny beyond belief. What's happening to her?

"Ginny?" said Hermione's voice from somewhere far away. Ginny was too transfixed by the horror in front of her to react. Until the door opened with a bang, the air coming from the rest of the house bringing her back to real life.

"Ginny, Fleur's lo -" Hermione fell silent, her eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight in front of her; the runny make-up, the ruffled hair, the wrinkled dress, the tear-stained face…

"I wasn't crying," said Ginny instinctively, knowing fully well that any idiot could see that was a lie.

But Hermione nodded. "I know." She glanced around the bathroom, then finally back at Ginny, who was trembling now. "Do you want me to fix your make-up?"

"Can you?" asked Ginny distractedly, not thinking about what she was saying.

She smiled gently, then grabbed a facecloth from the basket by the sink and tossed it to Ginny. "Start to clean up your face. I'll be right back." Hermione hurried out of the bathroom.

Ginny stayed standing by the sink, swallowing, calculating. Would Hermione tell Harry about what she had seen? She'd have to tell her not to, because Harry would worry, as he always did about things beyond his help, and he needed to be concentrating on his mission, because whatever it was it'd be dangerous, they always were…

Fear seized her once again, and she wasn't able to move until Hermione came back with a small make-up back. She took one look at Ginny, then sighed, pointed her wand at her face, and said, "_Tergeo!" _Ginny felt the tears and wet make-up slide off.

"Thanks," she murmured, smiling weakly.

Hermione didn't reply, but instead reached into her make-up bag and pulled out an eye shadow brush. Ginny closed her eyes, opening them when she was told to, not really caring what she looked like anymore. When Hermione finally finished, she looked carefully in the mirror. The only thing that she registered that the ghost girl from before was gone, and that was the only thing that mattered.

"Do you want me to try to fix your hair?" asked Hermione. "I saw Fleur do Gabrielle's hair, I probably could figure it out."

Ginny hesitated, then shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I'll just let it hang." As she talked, she reached up and began to untangle her hair. Then, without knowing she was going to, she said, "I suppose you're excited? Your last party for a while; I don't think there's going to be many while your hunting for Voldemort."

The reaction was what she had expected. Hermione jumped a little and then promptly stiffened. Clearing her throat, she stammered, "Wha… Ginny, we're not… that's not what we're doing…"

"Hermione, please," said Ginny, dropping all pretences of being remotely all right. "Don't lie to me now."

She seemed to deflate. "How did you find out?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? It's all Harry's ever going to be happy doing." There should be humour in the words she was speaking.

"You know I can't tell you anything? Dum -"

" - bledore said not to, I know," said Ginny. With a last pull, the hair elastic came out, and her hair, slightly curly, hung around her shoulders, making her feel slightly more protected. "I don't want to know anything more, anyway."

"Oh, Ginny," whispered Hermione, and then hugged Ginny very hard. Ginny swallowed, looking up at the ceiling and blinking desperately.

"You can't tell Harry I was crying," said Ginny seriously when Hermione let go.

"Of course not." She nodded. "It'd make him go ballistic. He really loves you, Ginny."

"He hasn't talked to me since I kissed him," said Ginny. It hadn't really bothered her that much, but she supposed there was some noble reason why he wouldn't, and Hermione would know it. At the very least, it would make her laugh.

"That's only because Ron made him swear not to. He thinks Harry screwing around with you."

Instead of laughing, frustration boiled under her skin. "Honestly! When will Ron learn to keep his nose out of other people's business?"

"Never," said Hermione wisely. "It's in his nature."

"You would know," said Ginny, a small smile spreading across her face as she nudged Hermione. "Hasn't he been breaking you up with every boyfriend you've ever had since you were fourteen? Not that you minded, of course."

Hermione went red. "Well - yes, I suppose, he has, but it did bother me - er, I mean, it _does_ bother me! Yeah, er -"

"Hermione, your face is redder than my hair."

Hermione's blush darkened. "How come everyone knows? Harry's the only one who I told - well, I didn't really tell him, but Harry's not stupid, not like Ron -"

"It's common knowledge," interrupted Ginny, answering Hermione's question. "To everyone except Ron, anyway. He's almost as clueless as… well, no. He's the most clueless person I know."

They both laughed, and Ginny felt herself recovering. It felt wonderful.

"Ginny?" Fleur's voice floated up from somewhere downstairs. "'urry up, it eez almost time!"

"Coming," called Ginny, suddenly nervous.

"It'll be fine," said Hermione, talking about several things at once, as always.

"Thanks. You look pretty," she added, just now taking in Hermione's shimmery, pale purple dress. Hermione only smiled in response, then promptly blushed, no doubt thinking about Ron. _Ugh_, thought Ginny, but she was smiling. Squaring his shoulders, she threw her hair back her hair, glancing at her reflection. The girl who stared back wasn't completely healed, but she was mending. Ginny liked that.

She wouldn't be perfect, but she'd be okay. She'd get through the wedding, get through the awkward tension between her and Harry, get through her mother's worry, her father's pride, her brother's happiness. And, when the time came to say good-bye, she would. No matter how hard it was.

She would stay strong, but this time, not for anyone but herself.

* * *

><p><strong>Like it? Love it? Hate it? Is it just me, or does the title sound like an old country song - <strong>_**Ginny, staay strong, your mama is coming, y'all gonna be all right - **_**as you can see, I can't write country music. My friend can, though. **

**So, yeah, that's all. If you read this story, can you please review? **

**~ Cierra, **who today learned what gout is, and does not like it (poor King Henry VIII)


	4. The Reality Found In A Bathroom

**The Reality Found In A Bathroom**

It was stupid, really.

Then again, Hermione thought bitterly, so was everything else. The war, the hunt for the Horcruxes, the constantly going into hiding, Ron, to name a few.

But the delicate, taunting bottle she held in her hands at that moment topped everything else. It was perfectly insane. What could possibly be gained from wearing perfume?

There wasn't a logical answer. There was nothing to celebrate anymore, just death and fear, desperation and hunger. There were no snowy white balls to attend with light feet and light hearts. And there was no one left to impress, besides Harry and Ron, and she saw no reason to try to impress them. They were her best friends. Her heart twisted a bit when she thought of Ron as _just_ a friend, but there wasn't time to think of that.

Either way, the perfume wouldn't do anything. The smell of trees, dirt and sweat would break though. It was just a lie, something to achieve normality for a brief period of time.

Normality. Hermione sighed longingly and looked around the dingy bathroom of the tent. She would love to be sitting on the floor of a Hogwarts bathroom, or her own bathroom, or the Weasley's bathroom. She would love for life to be dull, and boring, and beautiful.

The past couple of weeks, they'd all tried to make things seem normal. Harry had taken out his Marauder's Map and stared at it a few times. Hermione had recited a few facts that made her seem cleverer than everyone else. And she and Ron had bickered, of course. If she had closed her eyes, and listened to their fire crackle and snap, it was like being back in the Gryffindor common room.

But not quite. Instead of checking up on teachers, Harry was hungrily watching Ginny's name float across the map. Hermione wasn't fooling anyone with her useless knowledge - she was just as lost as the rest of them on what to do next. Fighting with Ron just made her weary and old, instead of putting an angry spring in her step and a light in her eye that was almost as fiery as his hair. _I don't want to do this anymore_, she wanted to scream. _Can't you see_?

And the flames didn't live in a fireplace anymore. They were uncontained and wild.

Hermione rolled the bottle over in her hands. It had been a gift from Ron for Christmas two years ago, the Christmas they'd all spent at number twelve Grimmauld Place. She hadn't ever worn it - she hadn't bothered with it that year, and then it promptly became lost that summer, only to reappear in her beaded bag - but she did remember noticing how interesting it was. It had Amortentia, the most powerful love-potion in the world, mixed into it; but since you didn't drink the perfume, it simply smelled like whatever attracted you the most. Just like a year ago, she smelled the dusty comfort of new parchment, the fresh, dewy cleanliness of freshly mown grass, and the sharp but oddly sweet smell of spearmint toothpaste. Scents she had begun to associate with a certain red-headed boy, however embarrassing that might be.

Hermione heard a thud and a very lively bout of swearing, and she knew Ron must've heard something offensive on the radio again. Almost all of the channels were run by the Ministry these days, and, as they strongly suspected that she was travelling with Harry (which was correct, of course), the word _Mud-blood _was being applied to her more and more. It made everyone angry, but none as angry as Ron.

She liked to think that was because he cared for her, as she'd been secretly hoping for who knows how long, but it probably was just that he'd grown up knowing the word was foul, while she and Harry hadn't. Or it could be that he was angry that the Ministry hadn't simply assumed she'd left the country with her parents, or he could be irrationally upset that his name wasn't mentioned -

All in all, it was enough to give her a headache.

"Where's Hermione?" she heard Harry say, walking into the tent. "It's her turn to keep watch -"

"I'll take it," said Ron automatically.

"Ron -"

"I'm coming," called Hermione loudly, standing up. A few days ago, she'd fallen asleep, and Ron had taken her watch without telling her, the git. She wasn't going to let him go sit outside in the rain when she could do it perfectly fine. She thought she could hear Ron muttering something under his breath, but she couldn't be sure, and either way his words were indistinguishable over the rain thudding on the tent.

She stretched and started to leave, but as her hand touched the doorknob, she remembered the little glass bottle in her hand. She held it up, watching the dim light shine through the silvery white liquid. Then, with an almost frightened tentativeness, she sprayed it onto her wrists, and around her neck. Closing her eyes, she let the familiar and tempting scent fill her up. Then, she pulled the stopper off the bottle, and poured the liquid down the sink. It made the dirty sink slightly shinier.

Briefly closing her eyes, she walked out of the bathroom, where everything was more real than it had been in a long time, into the world of pretending to be normal.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, well what do you think? I think it started out okay, but then kind of went downhill. That's kind of the deal with most of my stories though. Who knows? Review!<strong>

**~ Cierra**, who wants a baby Border Collie puppy


	5. That Boy

**That Boy**

This was not good. In fact, it was the opposite of good. Bad, really. "This is not good at all," said Ron aloud. There was no one in the kitchen with him but the family dog, who barked in agreement.

It had started out innocently enough. Well, that _boy_ had been guilty from the beginning, but it hadn't been this bad the second Malfoy's son had walked into their door. At first, it had just been a _get together _with _some close friends_… which basically meant a party. Even Ron, who had to admit that he was a bit foggy on some of the things kids said nowadays, knew this. Of course, he'd had still initially been inclined to say "Not in your wildest dreams", but Hermione had stepped in.

And now _that boy_ was _cavorting_ around in the garden with _his daughter_.

Ron glowered out the kitchen at them, not sure whether to call Rose in here for an explanation, or to call the entire Auror department for back up. It had all happened so fast that he swore he was getting dizzy. One second, his yard was full of screaming teenagers and a birthday cake with fifteen candles and his sister and brother-in-law, and the next – the garden was full of fireflies and music, and they were waltzing.

"That slick git," said Ron, once again to himself. Outside, Rose laughed, and as they turned around Ron noticed that Malfoy had his hand on her hip. Her _hip_.

Ron proceeded to then call Malfoy names he probably shouldn't have near an open window, but he didn't care. Where was _everyone_? He glanced wildly around, but the party seemed to have died down. Harry and Ginny had left with their kids, Dean had come by to pick up his daughter, Neville had gone and left… even Teddy Lupin, who usually was the last to leave any party and instead just crashed on the sofa, had left hand in hand with Victoire. Ron briefly considered sending a Weasley Wizard Wheezes brand firework out the window, but he'd probably end up blowing up all the trees.

He turned away from the dishes he was pretending to wash. The dog was now wriggling around on his back. "Hey, hey, Dobby!" said Ron, calling over the dog. Dobby's golden ears perked up and he rolled back over, trotting over to Ron. He crouched down, rubbing the big dog's neck. "Go outside, will you, and bite the bad boy? Will you? Will you bite him for me, Dobs? Go bite him, go on -"

"What are you doing?" Ron shot up, slamming his head against the counter.

"I wasn't talking to the dog," he said quickly to his wife, who had just walked in holding some dirty dishes. He rubbed the back of his head, wincing.

"Clearly," said Hermione in an unimpressed voice, walking around him and putting the dishes in the sink, where they began to wash themselves. "Didn't you say only last week that it was only loons who talked to their dogs?"

"I wasn't talking to the dog," insisted Ron. "I was giving him a command, and as he is the dog and I'm the master, he should probably be listening to. Right, Dobby?" He gave Dobby a meaningful look. Dobby wagged his tail helpfully and barked.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Anyway, I just came in to let you know that the faces you are making out the window are frightening the kids."

"By the kids, do you mean Rose and that _boy_?" He jerked his head towards the window.

Hermione sighed a sigh, which he had long ago learned to mean _you are being ridiculous and you are not leaving until we talk this out_. "If you're talking about Scorpius -"

"So, he's sucked you in, too?" grumbled Ron.

"_Sucked me in_?" repeated Hermione sceptically. "Ron, this is a fifteen year old kid we're talking about."

"Yeah, and at fifteen, the Malfoy we know and hate was manipulating people and hiding the fact that his father was an evil crackpot from everyone."

"They're not the same person," said Hermione patiently.

"Oh, really?" said Ron sarcastically. He grabbed some of the clean dishes and began putting them in the cupboards angrily. Hermione watched him with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"I don't think you really hate Scorpius," she said after a moment.

"No, I think I really do," corrected Ron, nearly dropping a mug as he was putting it in the cupboard. He swore loudly.

"Ron!" Hermione gave him a _what in Merlin's name are you doing_ look, glancing out the window furtively. "The kids are right outside -"

"You mean Rose and that _boy_," he snapped. He slammed a plate into the drawer with more force than intended, shattering it. Ron very nearly swore loudly again, but remembering that Hermione was in the room, simply bit his tongue.

"You just hate the Malfoys in general," continued Hermione with her outlandish theory. "As in, you hate the ones you knew."

"_Knew_?" demanded Ron. "When we were in school, Draco Malfoy was a bully and pathetic, and his father was twisted. They still are."

"They could've changed," said Hermione simply.

"What the bloody hell is _that _supposed to mean?"

"It _means_," said Hermione, starting to get worked up, "that we knew Draco as a seventeen year old. He made mistakes, and I think he knew it!"

"When we were seventeen, we were putting our lives on the line for something worthwhile," argued Ron, forgoing the pretence of cleaning dishes altogether.

"So was he! Look, Ron, from what I've heard from Scorpius, Draco regrets it!"

"Regrets choosing the losing side."

Hermione ignored him "I'm not asking to be best friends, or even like him, Ron! I just want you to stop tolerate him! You hate him for something that someone else did twenty-five years ago, is that fair?" Everything about her seemed to be fizzing with electricity, and her eyes were bright and clear and passionate. It was hard to be arguing with her when there was yet another reminder right in his face of why he fell in love with her in the first place.

"I hate him for what his _father _did to us!" he half-shouted. They had reached the climax in the argument, and, just as always, the energy quickly dropped, making everything much easier to see and much more obvious. "What he did to you," he said, more quietly. His gaze dropped to her arm. "Has he seen that?"

Out of habit, Hermione fingered the word that had been carved into her arm so long ago. "No," she said softly. "It isn't as if I want him to see… it was so long ago… I mean, I don't want to ruin his relationship with his father. It was Bellatrix, really… but it was in their house, and Draco was there. I think they still use that room, too."

"So Scorpius respects him, then?" asked Ron, too caught up to notice he'd called _that boy _by his name.

"Yes, of course," said Hermione.

"Then he doesn't know about how Draco was a Death Eater."

"Oh, he knows," she said. When she saw his blank look, she sighed. "Rose would love you if you were a Death Eater. Draco's his father. It's unconditional."

Ron, because of his experience with the subject, was quickly able to pick up the little tool she was throwing out for him to use to try to get back on her good side. "Unconditional," he repeated, reaching down and taking her hand.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Yes, as in, I love you even though you drive me up a wall with your nonsense."

Nevertheless, she was smiling, and she ran a hand through his hair, and kissed him very gently. And even though it was soft and sweet, there was still that invigorating fire that Ron knew would always be there, because, even before the love, there had been intense passion that couldn't just fade away.

After a few heartbeats, Hermione pulled back, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Promise me," she whispered into his ear. "That you won't hate him. For Rose's sake, at least."

He paused, and then sighed heavily. "You win, as always. I promise."

* * *

><p>When at last, the fireflies had flown away and the clock had ticked to such an hour that even Hermione had to admit it was time for Scorpius to go home, they called the two teenagers into the house. Scorpius seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing nervously at Ron. Ron nodded at him, just a slight inclination of the head, beckoning him in. Scorpius came inside, but he seemed almost wary, and very confused. Ron's insides squirmed slightly.<p>

"Scorpius, honey, do you have a way home?" asked Hermione, who was putting out the lights outside with her wand.

"Yeah, my mum's going to be here any minute," said Scorpius. He held up a Galleon. "We used a Protean charm on it. I use it to let her know when to come pick me up."

Ron glanced at Hermione, a strong feeling of déjà vu washing over him. "Didn't you…

"Yes, I did!" said Hermione, turning to face Scorpius, getting excited again. Ron smiled at her eagerness, which was so childlike. "Did you do the charm yourself?"

Scorpius glanced almost imperceptibly at Rose, who nodded, smiling; and Ron's stomach flipped, because she was smiling at Scorpius the same way he was smiling at Hermione - it had something tender and something amused, something mature and something innocent… and it hit him again. She was growing up.

"Yeah," said Scorpius, embarrassed. "But I wasn't that good at it. The first time we tried it, it lit my mum's purse on fire -"

"Oh, shut up, Scorpius, you're brilliant at charms." She rolled her eyes. "Stop trying to be so modest." Turning to her parents, she added, "He was the first one to do the charm perfectly on the very first day of Charms class."

"Really?" said Hermione, giving Ron a very pointed look. Ron rolled his eyes.

The doorbell rang, and Scorpius said, "That's probably my mum." There was something about his tone that let Ron know he was disappointed.

"Oh, I'll go get your shoes," said Rose quickly. Ron noticed for the first time that they were both barefoot.

"No, I can get them," said Scorpius politely, hurrying back outside into the backyard with Rose running after him, laughing. Hermione went to get the door, and Ron leaned against the counter, listening to the sounds of a very innocent race through the moonlit grass.

After a few moments, Rose and Scorpius ran back into the kitchen, rosy-cheeked and laughing like something hilarious had happened that they would never tell anyone. Hermione hurried back with a short, gentle looking woman with dark hair and the slightest suggestion of freckles, who must've been Draco's wife and Scorpius's mother. It was the last person Ron thought he would see married to Draco, but maybe she really wasn't as innocent and childlike as she looked.

Or maybe Draco really had changed.

"I don't think we've met - I'm Astoria Malfoy," said Scorpius's mother.

"Ron Weasley," said Ron, shaking her hand.

Astoria smiled gently, then glanced at her watch. "Scorpius, we really ought to get going. We've got to leave early." Turning to Hermione, she said, "We're leaving to stay with my parents for a week in Liverpool."

"Okay, I'm coming," sighed Scorpius. "Bye, Rose."

"Bye," said Rose, and she winked at him.

"Have fun in Liverpool," said Hermione kindly.

"Thanks, Mrs Weasley," replied Scorpius.

Then, to everyone's general surprise and Hermione's pride, Ron extended a hand to Scorpius, who shook it with an air of bewilderment. "Nice seeing you, Scorpius."

"You - you too, Mr Weasley," stammered Scorpius. He glanced at Rose, who shrugged, watching her father carefully. Ron just smiled innocently. He'd made a promise. He was going to at least try to not hate Scorpius as a Malfoy.

He'd said nothing, however, about not hating Scorpius as his daughter's boyfriend.

* * *

><p><strong>What do you think? My favourite part, personally, was Hermione and Ron's little kiss scene. It's nice to think that there would still be sweet little romances for them years after that completely EPIC kiss scene in the last movie. I am smiling my face off every time it comes up.<strong>

**Anyway, read, review, reuse, recyle... haha. Seriously though, tell me what you think! :D**

**~ Cierra**, who has proudly helped (kind of) to write four stories


	6. The Questions

**The Questions**

Molly Weasley was used to the questions.

Being a mother of seven, she had to be. Children love to ask questions, a trait that dies out quickly for fear of looking stupid. Often, as her kids got older, Molly would miss the queries that would come when she tucked her kids in at night.

Bill never much of a question asker – he liked to be independent, liked to go it alone. She remembered one of the only questions he'd asked her as she tucked him in; "How old do I have to be to get my own apartment?"

She tutted. "Much older than five. When you're taller than me, you can have an apartment." That didn't take long – he was taller than her by the time he was eleven.

Charlie's questions were more of the 'Can I' type. "Can I have a pet dragon?" "Can I get a tattoo?" "Can we go to the zoo tomorrow?" "Can I drive Dad's car?"

Her answers were _no, never, maybe, _and _absolutely not_.

Percy was just looking for straight, plain out information. One night, when he was eight years old, he had said, "Mum, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, dear."

"How do taxes work?"

She had almost not wanted to answer that question. Percy was only little, his glasses slipping off his nose, his hair awry. She didn't want him to worry about trivial matters like that.

But she'd still answered. Nighttime questions were to always be answered truthfully.

Fred and George always told jokes at night. As she kissed George's forehead, Fred would whisper, "Mum, why did Santa lose his job?"

"Why?" she asked as she crossed the room to his bed.

"Because the elves gave him the sack," murmured George sleepily. Molly kissed Fred's forehead. "Get it? The sack?"

"Good one, Georgie," she whispered. But they were already asleep. The twins could fall asleep in seconds.

Ron was different than the others with his questions. Even when he was only a baby, Molly knew he was going to have a tougher time than his brothers – she'd had two older brothers, and it was hard living in their shadows. Ron, when he was a toddler, would imitate his brothers, trying unconsciously to find his niche, what his role in this family was. Molly told him he was special when he cried that he wasn't, but she couldn't say anything more than that. She couldn't tell him who he was.

Ron's questions were more sensitive, deep in the way that children's are, and more telling. Ron would worry about things his brothers didn't care about – money, school, friends. They were also exhausting – Ron would never be content with a reassurances. It needed to be proven to him.

On a rainy night, Ron had asked, "Mum, what if a spider crawls into my bed tonight and bites me and I die?"

"No spider is going to crawl into your bed," she'd reassured him.

"But say it does –"

"None of the spiders in Britain are poisonous, Ronnie." She sat on the edge of his bed.

Ron's blue eyes were grave. "But what if Fred and George jinx it and make it poisonous and it crawls into my bed tonight and bites me and I die?"

"Fred and George don't have wands yet."

"They could steal your wand, or Dad's."

And so on.

When the Second Wizarding War started, and Ron disappeared, along with Harry and Hermione, Molly would often come back to moments like that. Ron had stopped asking questions when he was eight, earlier than the rest, but she knew that little boy was still inside of the young man she'd last seen. And she worried about him. Constantly. He was her son; what else was she supposed to do? She'd already lost Percy.

Night was the hardest, but then again, isn't night always the hardest? Molly would walk by the stairs up to Ron's attic room and swallow something heavy, or she'd fall asleep and dream about him, or she would be doing late night laundry, to delay the inevitable moment where she'd fall asleep, and find one of his old shirts, or jeans that he quickly outgrew.

At least, at her own home, she'd been able to concentrate on cleaning the home, doing little things to keep her mind off of all the worries that were slowly building up. But now, her nights consisted of listening to her Aunt Muriel ramble about how _if Ronald was any good, he wouldn't be hiding somewhere, leaving us to fend for ourselves _and _I gave that tiara to your daughter-in-law months ago, and I still haven't gotten it back! Honestly the nerve of those French –_

Molly endured it all in silence. After all, they were here because the Death Eaters knew he didn't have spattergoit, which means they must have seen him, which means, a week ago, he was safe.

She didn't know about now, of course.

One night, as Muriel droned on and on about how she always knew Percy was a bad child, destined for failure, she was interrupted a plaintive voice calling from the doorway, "Mum? Can – can you come here?" Ginny had stepped into the living room, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes flickering from Molly to Muriel.

"Sure, dear," said Molly, keeping the relief out of her voice. "Aunt Muriel, can we talk about this later?"

"What do you mean, _later_?" squawked Muriel in indignation. "I'm a hundred and seven, I could drop dead any moment! When you're as old as me, you have to get it all out in the open. Speaking of which, I really do think Fred and George need to find another job, jokes are only going to be fashion for so long – where are you going?" demanded Muriel, for Molly had hurried out of the room, Ginny following her.

"What is it?" asked Molly once the door was closed, somewhat muting Muriel's whining.

Ginny opened her mouth. "I – Mum, I – can you tuck me in?" She sounded like she needed it.

Molly was confused, but not enough to ask. She hadn't tucked in anyone in since Ginny was nine. "Of course, dear," she said. Ginny probably just needed reassurances, to be soothed. It would just be hard, since Molly herself needed to be reassured and soothed.

But that was the role of a mother, wasn't it? To comfort her children when she herself needed it more?

She followed Ginny into her cousin Matilda's old room. It hadn't be used in years, and was dusty and dark. Molly almost had a heart attack when she saw a pair of eyes staring at her in the closet before she realised they belonged to a doll with burnt hair.

"Tomorrow, I'll help you clean this room up," promised Molly.

"Yeah," mumbled Ginny. The eyes in the closet didn't seem to bother her as much as whatever was on her mind did.

Molly, as she tucked Ginny in with old blankets and quilts, was struck by a strong sense of déjà vu. Ginny was sixteen, not six, and this was an old dusty room, not Ginny's friendly one, but still – she was still wrapping warmth around her daughter, and she could feel in her gut that the questions would be coming.

And sure enough –

"Mum," whispered Ginny. She grabbed Molly's arm. "Mum – I was dating Harry."

Molly stared at her. Her first thought was that Ginny was much too young to have a boyfriend, her second was that she should've known, they'd both been acting strangely around one another, her third thought was that wasn't a question, and, finally, she realised what Ginny was saying.

"Was?" asked Molly eventually, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"He broke it off," mumbled Ginny. "He – he said it was dangerous. He was worried that Voldemort would use me to get to him."

Then it was serious, thought Molly. A pang struck her. Why hadn't she paid more attention to her children when they'd all been safe and happy? If she'd just been more diligent – she should've known that Ginny was in love with Harry, she should've known something was bothering Percy. She should've paid attention to Ron especially, because he was sweet and sensitive about being overlooked, and who knows when she'd see him again, and what state he'd be in –

"He knows what he's doing," Molly found herself answering Ginny's question. "Ron and Hermione, too. They'll be fine." Was that a lie?

"Mum," sighed Ginny. "I know you don't mean that."

Another difference between now and years and years ago. When Ginny was six, she believed anything her mother said. Now, it was harder.

"You have to have faith in them, Ginny," insisted Molly. "If we didn't –"

"But you don't," pointed out Ginny, too tired to really argue back like she used to, with energy in her eyes and a snap in her voice. "Have faith in them, I mean. You spend all your time worrying about Ron, and then you tell us he's fine and we shouldn't worry."

There it was. Ginny had managed to reach through all of Molly's soothing words and comforts and pull out the truth. But then again, Ginny's questions had always been like that – she'd been able to see through anything false, anything that was covered up and sweetened. She always saw the point, and she got to it straight away.

"I…" Molly realised she didn't know how to say anything else but the solid truth. "I have to, Ginny. Someone has to say that. If we all just lost hope… we can't lose it. It's all we have."

"You're worried most about Ron," stated Ginny quietly.

"Yes," admitted Molly after a moment. "He's my son, and I love Harry and Hermione as well, but – but Ron's my son."

Ginny was silent for a moment. "Is it bad," she asked after a moment, "That I love Harry and Hermione as much as Ron? He's my brother, and I've only known Harry and Hermione for five years, but…"

Molly smiled gently, and pushed the stray hairs off her daughter's forehead. "It's not bad, sweetie. I'd be concerned if you only loved people in your family."

Then Ginny started to cry. Molly hadn't seen Ginny cry in years, not since the Chamber of Secrets. "I miss them. I miss _him_."

"I know, dear," said Molly. She didn't, really. She didn't even know which _him_ Ginny was talking about. Maybe it was both. Did it matter?

Probably not. Molly fell asleep on top of the blankets that night, speaking quietly to Ginny and giving her words of comfort that they both knew were probably not true.

Please, Ron, Molly thought. Come home.

* * *

><p><strong>Like I said, definitely not my best. I'm not trying to get you to say "Omigolly, this is amazing" - I'm just saying, its my personal opinion that I've done better before.<br>**

**Anywho... Review, review!  
><strong>

**~ Cierra**, who just bought a beach house in N.C.!


	7. So Not Over

**So Not Over**

It was times like this, Hermione thought, as the girls in her dormitory waged war with pillows, that she slightly wished she had a friend in here.

The pillow fight was a yearly ritual that Hermione never took part in. Besides the fact that it created more work for the house-elves who already laboured enough in cleaning up Gryffindor tower (especially when it came to the boys' rooms), it was stupid and ridiculous. Feathers were flying everywhere, and Hermione kept biting back snippy remarks when they blew into her hair and onto the pages of her book. It was frivolous, lame, and very cliché. Plus, she had watched horror movies with her older cousin, and it seemed that any time the heroine had a pillow fight like this, a maniac with an axe broke in and began hacking at people. So, there was really no reason why she should want to join in on the riot.

But she _did _want to.

Technically, she reminded herself as Fay Dunbar - a round girl with dark hair - launched a pillow at Parvati's face, she could join their recklessness. She'd never exactly been told that she had to sit here by herself. There was no rule against it.

And yet, Hermione knew it was out of the question. She wasn't friends with any of these girls. She knew that if she grabbed a pillow, their body language would betray their discomfort, their awkward confusion. Truthfully, she wouldn't know what to do herself. She'd never had a pillow fight.

This again spoke volumes. How pathetic it was to have never had a full out stay-up-all-night-watching-chick-flicks-eating-candy-and-calling-boys-up-on-the-phone sleepover! It was complete foreign territory to Hermione, because she'd honestly never had enough girl friends.

It wasn't that she was complaining, because she wasn't. Luna and Ginny were great - although things occasionally got tense with Luna and her _imaginings_. Hermione wasn't obsessed with being popular or pretty or wanted by all of the boys in class, unlike some people - who were currently beating Parvati with a blanket. She just thought that it might be nice to have more than two friends whom with she could talk about things that she could never talk about with Harry - or, God forbid,_ Ron_. Like a panicky feeling that she kept getting when she was around with the latter of the two, because it couldn't be what she suspected, it couldn't be -

Suddenly, Hermione realised that the sound of giggles and thwacks had died down. She glanced up to see all of the girls gasping for breath, grinning to each other, all feeling oh so clever because of their fun little ritual that Hermione was closed off from. "I so won," said Lavender between breaths.

"Shut up!" laughed Parvati, giving her one more half-hearted thump with her pillow. Fay and Kelsey Crown, a tiny girl with a short orange hair, both laughed.

Hermione sighed to herself, returning to her Transfiguration textbook. Of course, she'd already read the whole thing. In fact, she knew it off by heart. But reviewing some of the trickier material couldn't hurt. Plus, and Hermione hated to admit it, she was bored. It really was too bad Ginny wasn't in her dorm.

"So, did you all have a good summer?" asked Lavender. She was the leader of them all. Hermione tuned out as all of the girls launched into detailed stories about their summers, about what their parents did to whom and who wore what and who kissed whom -

"She's dating _Dean_?" gasped Parvati loudly at one point, and Hermione glanced up from her book. "Dean Thomas, the super yummy one? Ginny Weasley is dating_ him_?"

All of the girls giggled again. "It's true!" insisted Kelsey. "I saw them hanging out by one of the little ice cream stands by my house - Dean lives a couple blocks down from me - and they were holding hands, and junk like that." She sounded very disgruntled. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I can't believe _Little Miss Perfect_ got _Dean_," muttered Parvati. "How come all the attractive boys get snatched up?"

Well, not all of them, thought Hermione before she could stop herself. Then she nearly clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified at her own thoughts. Blushing furiously, she turned back to her book.

"I don't know about that," said Lavender smugly, echoing Hermione. "I mean, I know a certain ginger who is most _definitely_ available - and definitely interested in_ moi_."

Her neck must've snapped when she glanced up this time, and they must've all seen it - her shocked and yet oddly possessive expression, and she could see it on their faces, the seeds of distrust and rivalry being planted at that moment. In that moment, everything was crystal clear; they could read her thoughts and she could read theirs: _He was only her best friend, what was frumpy bookworm Granger freaking out about _- _it wasn't like she ever had the _slightest_ chance with him_ -

"Have a nice summer, Hermione?" asked Lavender in a very faux voice, slicing through the moment. She had seen everything, and probably more.

Hermione cleared her throat, flushing. "Er, yeah, it was all right…" She trailed off, unsure of why she was so nervous. After all, Lavender asked the same question every year, and she always got the same answer: something very generic, something very classic, and something that revealed absolutely nothing. But her purpose had changed now; she usually asked to be polite, but there was something under the surface now. Lavender was fishing for something, and Hermione didn't know whether to give it to her or not.

"That's nice, did you just stay at home, or did you go to Germany again?" Further proof - Lavender never asked follow-up questions. Hermione resisted the urge to tell her that it was France that she'd visited. It wouldn't prove anything, and she'd just forget it, anyway.

"Yeah, I stayed with my parents for a while… but I did spend part of the summer at Ron's," she added, almost defiantly. She self-consciously pulled her fingers through her eternally tangled hair as she took in their expressions. Parvati obviously thought the very idea of Hermione Granger spending any length of time at a boy's house was _unforgivable_. Her mouth was hanging open, her normally pretty face undeniably scandalized. Fay and Kelsey both looked nervous of Lavender, as if they thought she might explode. But Lavender didn't look angry. Her sugary sweet smile faded, and her teeth clenched, but she didn't look mad. She looked grimly determined, as if she'd just made up her mind to push someone down that she didn't want to, but she'd have to in order to get what she wanted.

"Oh, really?" said Lavender stiffly. "That's interesting." _Interesting_ did not sound like a good thing.

"Well, yeah, you know… he's one of my closest friends, I've spent part of the last couple of summers at his house," continued Hermione casually. What game she was playing at, she didn't know, but it was both scary and addicting.

"Hmm," said Lavender vaguely, not looking as if Hermione's reply was really worth anything. "And what did you do?"

"Do?" asked Hermione, starting to feel nervous now.

"Do," repeated Lavender like she was talking to a clueless toddler. "As in, what did you spend your entire summer _doing_ at Ron's house?" Kelsey giggled, almost hysterically. If Hermione hadn't been so tense, she would've been fighting the urge to say something unquestionably nagging, yet irrefutably true to Kelsey.

"Well," began Hermione slowly, "We mostly just - well, we just hung out at his place." She didn't know why, but _place_ sounded so much better than _house_.

"That sounds boring," said Parvati dubiously. "Doesn't he have, like, two rooms in his house?"

"No, actually, he doesn't have _like two rooms _in his house," snapped Hermione, feeling irritation rush up her throat. Honestly, the ignorance of people! Parvati's eyes widened, and she whispered something to Fay, but Hermione was past caring.

"Really," said Lavender mildly, and Hermione realised she must've taken her defence of Ron as a defence of the quality of her summer. Once again, she flushed with anger. Lavender was just too shallow to realise that others might put their friends before themselves. That stupid, silly, _pink _-

"Did you spend any time alone with him at all?" went on Lavender like she hadn't noticed Hermione's annoyance, but of course she had. Hermione had to give it to her, she knew how to play this game. Whatever game it was.

"Yes, actually," said Hermione stiffly. She resisted the urge to smile at the way Lavender's features froze. "Harry didn't get there for a week or so after me." That was a lie; he arrived just two days later than she did.

_Just one little white lie_, she thought, justifying it. _It won't hurt anyone_.

She was sucked in to this_ so_ deep.

She had to stop this. This carefully played competition, like a test match where everyone watching holds their breath, could not go on forever. Eventually, someone was going to have to give in - or get beaten so bad they couldn't get back up. And Hermione definitely did not want to be that person, for giving in meant giving up in the bigger, more important competition. The one for -

"Did you sleep with him?"

Hermione blinked. She had completely checked out of the conversation, absorbed in her doom-consumed thoughts. "Sorry?"

"I _said_," said Lavender, sounding very much the stereotypical teenager, "Did you _sleep_ with him?"

Hermione had seen cartoons where the characters' jaws drop, but she'd never expected to actually have it happen to her. And yet here she was, gaping like an idiot at Lavender. Parvati was laughing in a shocked sort of way, Fay looked terrified, and Kelsey was giggling again. Definitely hysterical. Hermione could not have been more stunned. The mere _though_t of it… and she was blushing again, so furiously her face must've been a brighter colour than the Weasley brand of hair.

"No," she said eventually, somewhat regaining composure. "Of course not!" She was too dumbfounded to think about the game.

Lavender smirked. "Of course not," she echoed, only in an entirely different way.

And just like that, that wall between Hermione and practically every other girl in Hogwarts was up again, more solid than iron, the one way glass that let her look on but hid her from the world of those who were pretty and popular. She turned back to _Transfiguration: Grade Six_, and the four girls turned back to their bubble gum coloured nail polish.

Just like that, but not quite.

"It's so obvious," said Lavender in a clearly purposeful pathetic attempt at a whisper. "She's completely _head-over-heels _for him -"

"And what about - you know, _Ron_?" hissed Parvati in a panicky voice, saying Ron's name like _he _was Voldemort. Hermione kept staring at her book, but not seeing the words.

"Not an issue," said Lavender dismissively. "We've discussed this; he's into _pretty_ girls." She shook her hair out, and didn't laugh, but simply _looked _it, and that was enough.

It's not true, she thought quickly. Don't think that way. But Hermione couldn't help feeling slightly ashamed, and uncomfortable, and awkward - which was absurd. Looks aren't everything, she told herself sternly.

But she couldn't help remembering something a girl she used to go with school had said: _That's what ugly people say_.

"But what about the Yule Ball?" said Kelsey, in a slightly uneasy voice, like she was scared of Lavender's reaction. "Remember how _jealous _he got when she showed up with Viktor Krum?"

"He's just protective," said Lavender, once again waving away their concerns. "You know how he is."

_No, you don't!_ Hermione felt like screaming. It was driving her insane, because _she _knew Ron, he was her best friend. He liked Quidditch and food and loved his sister more than he let on and he was sick of just getting all the limelight. He supported the Chudley Cannons, he'd had arachnophobia ever since he was three, his dad loved Muggles and his mother loved everyone, and he made rude jokes and held grudges and slacked off but he was funny and stubborn and incredibly trustworthy, and loyal to his friends. And his hair smelled like summer evenings when the rain pours down on you but you completely don't care, because that's what he did to her -

She hadn't realised she was staring at Lavender until she looked up and met Hermione's eyes. And in that split second, Hermione realised something else; this game, whatever the rules or whatever it was even called, was nowhere near over. Not even close.

Lavender looked at her for another moment, then, just slightly, nodded at her. Hermione nodded back at her, the message they had exchanged as clear as day.

It was officially _on_.

* * *

><p><strong>So… whadya think? My personal opinion was that it was really fun writing this, and I think that helps to make it good. It's a fun, bubbly, colourful and sassy (saucy) story. I like it, but it's your opinion that counts, and I want to know what you honestly think. TELL ME! I really liked when Lavender asked if Hermione and Ron had done <strong>_**it**_**, because it's a side of Hogwarts we hadn't seen. Yeah, spending your entire life trying to kill some albino bald guy might put you-know-what done a few notches on the importance scale, but not everyone is like that. Not everyone as in Lavender. For her, it's all the small, little in-the-moment things that matter, which is something I like about her and makes her fun to write.**

**And for anyone who was slightly confused: a test match is a cricket match. They call it a test match because a cricket match really is a test of endurance; the games sometimes go on for hours (longest match on record was about 100 hours, or over four days!). I almost didn't put that in, but then I figured; Hermione has lived in the wizarding world for only five years. It's not like she completely forgot everything Muggle. And cricket is played in Britain, and I bet she could've had a dad who would be way into cricket and always watch games for hours on end when she really wanted to watch Charlie St. Cloud -**

**Not that something like that ever has happened to me, of course. :D**

**All right, I'm done ranting. AGAIN. Feel free to review. Like, seriously, review! **

**Love (and butterfly kisses)**

**~ Cierra**, who has officially pulled a muscle and lit a match


	8. A Night Like Tonight

**A Night Like Tonight**

It was one of those lovely summer nights when the moon was clear and silver and lovely, with just a few wispy clouds drifting across its face. The trees blew in the gentle breeze, murmuring amongst themselves, and the surface of the lake was like a mirror, serene and beautiful.

And Lily was trapped inside.

_Trapped _might have been an exaggeration, but it was how she felt. Sometimes, she envied the carelessness that other students, namely James Potter, seemed to have. Being prefect was an honour, of course, but also a responsibility, and on nights like tonight it seemed to weigh her down. If she wasn't prefect, would she be enjoying the beauty of the night?

Probably not. Lily had too much pride to be caught sneaking around like an animal. But she needed something to blame for her restlessness, her sense of unease, and her position as prefect seemed as good as any.

Of course, Severus Snape and James Potter might have something to do with it as well. Lily scowled to herself and rolled over. They were cowards, idiots, gits, and prats. The only difference was that while she was used to being infuriated with James, being furious with Severus was a whole new game. He'd been her friend for so long. They'd stayed friends despite all odds: despite the fact that he was a Slytherin, despite the fact that his friends wanted to be Death Eaters, despite the fact that their relationship had been slowly falling apart for years…

Lily rolled over again, frustrated, only to catch sight of the moonlight shining through the open window. Abruptly, she sat up. To hell with being a prefect; she was going out, and she was going out _now_. She grabbed a jacket she'd left on the floor the other night and yanked it on over her pyjamas. Shoving her feet into her slippers, she stole out of the girls' dormitory.

She made it outside without any fuss or close calls; the Fat Lady had been appalled, of course, but Lily had ignored her. The front doors were locked, and just when Lilly was starting to give up, she got lucky. Hagrid was heading out of the castle, and the door stayed open just long enough for her to squeeze out silently. Hagrid didn't notice as she tiptoed down the stone steps and stepped through the grass, breaking into a run when she was far enough away.

The grounds were lovely, bathed in the light of the moon. Each blade of grass seemed to have a silver aura, stars twinkled merrily, and water lapped at the shore of the lake. It was the kind of night that fairy tales lived in.

It was all perfect, of course, but Lily's angry steps slowed as she realised she didn't know where she was going. Her rationality finally caught up with her. What was she _doing_? No doubt she'd get back and Professor McGonagall would take back her prefect badge, and James would tease her about becoming a rebel, and then use a idiotic pick-up line, which would make Sev flush dark red –

_Severus,_ she reminded herself, _is not your friend. _And she plowed on.

She wandered on the edges of the Forbidden Forest, keeping a safe distance away from the trees. At one point, she'd sworn she'd heard something growl. Although her heart began to pound wildly, she calmly stopped moving. It growled again, then there was a scuffle, and the animal, or animals, seemed to move away. It was impossible to make out anything more than shapes in the word, but Lily could've sworn she saw antlers.

A growling reindeer didn't seem like the most likely animal to exist, but Lily didn't pretend to know everything about the wizarding world. And since a growling reindeer could very well be vicious, she quickly moved away.

After a few minutes, she managed to find an old stone bench by an oak tree near the lake. The bench was weathered and worn and had definitely been forgotten by everyone at the castle. But it would be fine for her purposes, and so she sat down on the cold stone.

Lily stared out across the lake. She didn't have to be back by any time, since tomorrow was Saturday, although it'd probably be best to be back before breakfast. What time was it now? Midnight? It was possible, although on a night like tonight, everything was timeless. She still couldn't get over how flawless the image in front of her was, probably because everything else that day had been… well, _not. _It had been flawed, blemished, scarred by James and his idiot friends, by _Severus_, who had finally come clean.

Lily's face burned with the memory. She must've looked so stupid, finally seeing Severus as a typical Slytherin. No doubt everyone had known for years, been giving her pitying glances that she had been too stupid to see. It must have been so obvious… a friendship between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin had been destined for doom from the beginning.

Lily stared, determined not to cry, at the wild rose bushes growing by the bench. They were pretty things, and it was somehow comforting to see that they'd survived all this time, out here on their own.

A stick snapped behind, and Lily jumped. Twisting around, her stomach dropped. James Potter was standing behind her, looking as though he'd just been wrestling with the Whomping Willow. Leaves and twigs were caught in his hair, and his clothes were dirty and rumpled.

Great. Just the person she wanted to see. But Lily couldn't summon her usual venom, her usual fire to spit a biting remark at him.

"I was going to bring you a flower," said James by way of greeting. "But it looks like you found them yourself." He gestured to the rose bushes.

Lily turned back around, staring at the water. "If you've come to ask me out again, the answer is still no." She didn't sound disdainful like she wanted to. She sounded weary.

"Actually, I was out and about, and I couldn't help wondering what Perfect Prefect Evans was doing out at night." She could just imagine the smirk in his face.

"Go away, James," she said tiredly. "I don't want to talk to you." She turned around to give him a cold shoulder glare, but was caught off guard when she realised that he wasn't making fun of her. He seemed… concerned. Almost nervous, though she had no idea why. He'd never been nervous around her.

She suddenly noticed how ridiculous it all was, and turned back around with a shake of her head. This was _James Potter_ she was talking about, the arrogant, self-centered boy who had been embarrassing her for years. _Come on, Lily. Say something that isn't completely stupid._

"You can't make me," said James. "It's a free country, I could stay here all night."

"I could give you detention," reasoned Lily. She was getting warmed up now.

"But what if I left and then got attacked by a werewolf?" Now he sounded like he was trying not to laugh. _Git_. "I'd be on your conscious, Evans."

"It's a risk I'll have to take," said Lily. But James sat down next to her anyway. She scooted over, putting a wide berth between them. No way was she going to make this an opportunity for James to make a move.

It was quiet for a moment, awkwardly so. Lily stared at her feet, feeling frustration bubble up inside of her. Why did he have to ruin everything? This is what she got for breaking the rules.

"Full moon tonight," said James eventually.

"Obviously," muttered Lily.

"There are probably werewolves running around," hinted James. "Threstrals, centaurs… scary stuff."

"Try not to wet yourself," she said sarcastically.

"Don't you think we should head back?"

"_You _can head back if you want. I'm staying here."

"I can't leave without you!" said James, almost whining.

She didn't answer, crossing her arms stubbornly. She knew he was probably right. Not about the werewolves, of course – everyone knew that was just a scary story told to frighten the first years – but about heading back. She was not, however, going to let James tell her what to do. He could leave, and she could wait for five or ten minutes before heading up.

"Fine," sighed James. "Let's talk. I know why you're out here."

"Oh, do you now?" snapped Lily.

"You're upset about Snivellus."

"His name is Severus!" she snarled. "And I don't want to talk about him with _you_, you're the reason we're not friends."

"I didn't mean anything by it –" began James.

"What are you talking about?" she said passionately, glaring at him. "You can't just say something and expect it to mean _nothing_, James. Everything means something, even if you didn't mean it to mean something, and you can't take it back!" Her fingernails were digging into her palm, and she took a shuddering breath. Her eyes were wet, which embarrassed her to no end. _Get over it, Lily. He's not your friend anymore_.

Was he ever really her friend? Or did he always think of her as a Mud-blood?

She stared out across the lake, biting her lip and blinking desperately. James, thankfully, said nothing – possibly because he was completely lost. Frankly, Lily was slightly confused herself. Why was she telling him this?

She blinked again, hard, as a particularly determined tear threatened to spill over. She couldn't stand the thought of crying in front of _him_, but with every moment that passed it seemed more and more likely. James was, after all, the one who had been making her think of things she didn't want for years. Unlike Severus, who always did his best to be helpful, to try to make her happy... who avoided everything that they would disagree about, who always did the safe thing with her...

James cleared his throat. "I wasn't trying to get him to say… that word. He shouldn't have."

"I don't care what you think, or why you did what you did," Lily said in a thick voice, staring at the ground. "It was still wrong."

"I'm sorry," he offered.

"I don't believe you."

"But I mean it." Lily couldn't help it. This conversation was steadily growing weirder, and she had to see for herself, to make sure this wasn't just a very detailed dream. James's eyes were serious, earnest. There was nothing of the usual arrogance he usually possessed. It was, to say the least, unnerving.

It was most likely just because of the moon. Definitely the moon, turning Hogwarts into a fairy tale kingdom. It was the moon that was making everything seem sweet and enchantingly stunning… like James Potter.

Something rustled in the bushes behind them, breaking through the quiet moment. Both of them turned around, but Lily could see nothing.

"Werewolves," said James grimly.

"There aren't any at Hogwarts," said Lily automatically, though she couldn't be sure.

"Says you –oh!" he said suddenly. He shoved his hand into his jeans pocket, and pulled out a flower that had definitely seen better days. "Erm… I brought you this." He shoved the flower at her.

She was hesitant, but took it (damn the moon), holding the stem between her thumb and forefinger. The flower itself was small and probably some sort of wildflower. It was a pale lavender, maybe some sort of daisy.

Lily glanced up at him, shocked. "It isn't a lily."

"Of course… oh, damn it, why didn't I think of that?" James smacked his forehead. "Idiot –"

"No, it's okay," she said quickly, before he could hit himself again. She was desperately trying to suppress a smile. All the flowers she'd been given… they'd always been lilies. "A lovely lily for Miss Lovely Lily," her dad had used to say, and he wasn't the only one. She received lilies in her Easter basket, lilies from her friends and lilies from those who wanted to be friends. At Hogwarts, she'd been given a bouquet of lilies and someone had even dropped lilies on her head from the stairs on one awful Monday. Even Severus had given her a lily for birthday.

But she'd never been given just a regular flower.

"It's perfect," said Lily aloud.

James stared at her moment, then grinned. "You like it?"

_Damn_. Lily felt like kicking herself. Accepting a flower is one thing, admitting she loved it is another. _It's perfect... _what a stupid thing to say to a boy who had been chasing her for years. "Don't get any ideas," she warned him. "The moon is out. I'm just feeling… loony."

He snorted. "Whatever you say, Evans." Suddenly, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up towards him. Her hand landed on his shoulder, instinctively, and she found herself staring into hazel eyes.

Since when did James have hazel eyes?

"Doesn't mean I'm giving up," he told her, winking at her. She swallowed heavily.

Then James stepped back, letting go of her hand, and ran his hands through his hair like nothing had happened. Glancing at the forest, he said, "Seriously, though… I'll tell McGonagall if you come up with me to the castle right now."

"You wouldn't dare," she said, somewhat breathlessly.

"Try me," he said devilishly. He raised an eyebrow at her as if to say, _Bring it on_. It was incredibly attractive. Then she clenched her fist for what felt like the hundredth time that night. She couldn't afford think like that.

"Fine," mumbled Lily, trying not to look at him. "Let's go."

"Great," said James, relieved. He led the way up to the castle, all the while casting glances at the woods. She'd never known James to be a worrywart.

Then again, she'd never known James to be a lot of things.

It's just tonight, she told herself firmly. It's just a fairy tale.

But as James grinned at her, she suddenly didn't want to reach the ending.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, what did you think? I really love this fic - the moment is so real and <strong>**fierce and open-ended. Again, I got this idea from my list of prompts - the prompt was 'flowers'. I really tried to show how Lily was haughty and, while James had started the problem, she wasn't exactly angelic, either. I hope you guys liked it, because I had fun writing it.**

**Next time, expect an Augusta Longbottom fic - that's right, I have one that I wrote a while ago, and I'm going to have to fiddle with it, but it will definitely be coming soon. :D**

**~ Cierra, **who is the official host of Fanfiction IDOL (auditions close in half an hour! EEP!)


	9. Just Breathe

**Just Breathe**

_Take deep breaths. Deep breaths. You can do this._

Hermione wasn't sure if the last part was true, but she thought it repeatedly anyway, trying to make it _seem_ true, at least. Her reflection in the mirror was unsure, hesitant, and most of all, afraid.

Her hand was so tense, her knuckles almost white as she clung on to her wand. She didn't want to do this. She desperately wanted to throw her wand on the ground and kick it under her desk, because as long as she had it, the task that lay in front of her was possible. Was required morally.

It was right down stairs, waiting.

Hermione glanced up at her hair and somehow managed a sigh, despite how tense her throat felt. It was tangled, bushy, messy – if only she had a few extra minutes, she could ask her mother to brush through it, like she used to do when she was younger. But she didn't have a few extra minutes. If she waited, she'd have to break down this wall she had built around herself and then rebuild it. She was just too tired to do that.

There was now, and then there was after that, but nothing before.

She had to do it now, had to go down there and get it over with. It was a blow that had to be dealt before she started to heal.

Hermione took a last deep breath, took a last glance at her mirror (as usual, her reflection was less than satisfactory), and grabbed her bag from her bed for the last time. She wondered if she ever would see her bedroom again, with its bookshelf overflowing with books and its closet underflowing with clothes.

She wondered if she would ever see her parents again.

_No_, she told herself harshly. _You mustn't think like that. You will see them again. Just breathe, Hermione. Just breathe._

There would be no good-byes. Hermione knew that was the only way to go as she hurried down the stairs. No last words, no looks in their eyes to keep her up at night. Nothing was going to hurt as bad as that final touch.

_In and out, like the ocean. In, out, out, in. Just breathe, it's all going to be all right._

She choked a little on her breath, choked on tears unshed, as she reached the bottom step. In the living room, her parents' conversation died down and started back up again at twice the speed.

_Breathe_, she reminded herself. _But not too loudly._

Her parents were pretending to talk about teeth. They knew she was there. Did they know what she was about to do? Could they feel it in the air, that bittersweet feeling of goodbye?

Hermione raised her wand, and pointed it at her parents. And breathed.

"_Obliviate_."

* * *

><p>Time changes and flows, though sometimes irregularly. There had been moments which she had yearned for to end. And then there were those that she wished she could live in, curled up safely in the fabric of time. Like waltzing at a party that wasn't hers. That was over before it began, but the memory of it stuck.<p>

And now she was standing in a coffee shop full of rubble, staring at three motionless bodies. Bodies that were people

"What are we going to do with them?" said Ron, his voice bouncing unevenly against the broken fixtures of the café. "Kill them? They'd kill us. They had a good go just now."

Hermione couldn't help it, it was involuntary. She shuddered, and so did the air around her. Kill them? Maybe it was just because they were lying on the ground at the mercy of three teenagers, but they seemed more human. She vaguely wondered if either of them had any children before quickly dispelling the thought. Sympathy for the enemy was not approved of, was not was it an extravagance she could indulge in. Not now, in this crumpled room with the blinds pulled down and the lights turned off. Not now.

"We just need to wipe their memories," said Harry, shaking his head. "It's better like that, it'll throw them off the scent. If we killed them it'd be obvious we were here." She knew he was also thinking of the curse needed to kill people. The one that had killed his parents.

"You're the boss," said Ron. He sounded relieved, though he was trying not to show it.

You don't need to pretend you're up to this Ron, because none of us are. She thought the words, but didn't say them. It seemed like that was the case too often.

"Hermione," he whispered, turning to her, and there was something more in his voice as he touched her face, his finger gently touching a cut she hadn't known she had received before now. And once again, a shiver went down her spine. This time, it had less to do with dread and everything to do with him, the current running through his body and now hers, the pulse of him just inches away. Another moment came, and she yearned for it to linger.

"You're the best at spells," he continued. The moment came, and she was back in the dark. As he met her eyes, she realized what she was supposed to do. What was expected from her. Something rose in her throat, but she nodded thickly anyway, and stepped in front of Ron, facing the man on the floor.

It was a last second thought, too late for anything other than a slight nod in its general direction, but she wasn't sure if this was right. Ethically. How could she take someone's wishes and hopes, regrets and memories, and lay them to waste? No matter the mistakes he had made or the person Dolohov had become, could she really kill the dreams he must have dreamed at some point?

_Just breathe_. It seemed like her mantra now. And it was completely pathetic that she had to remind herself to breathe. But she did it anyway. _Not too loud now. Just breathe. It'll be all right_.

She had no idea if that was a lie or not, but she supposed she would find out eventually.

"_Obliviate_," she whispered, and his eyes went blank.

* * *

><p><strong>Kay, so I'm not really sure what to say about this... it literally just kind of came to me. I was just watching Deathly Hallows Part 1, and it was at this part of the movie, and I could so easily see this story in Hermione's face. It's kind of pointless, but I thought I'd post it anyway.<strong>

**So, yeah, basically review, tell me what you thought, and all that jazz. Brownie points to who ever can name one of the two lines from songs I used in this one-shot HINT: one of the songs was on Glee (amazing show)!**

**I'll leave you to your thoughts now... review, review, review!**

**~Cierra**, who needs to learn a whole two acts worth of lines by tomorrow


	10. Sometimes, She Cries Herself To Sleep

**Sometimes, She Cries Herself To Sleep**

Sometimes, she cries herself to sleep.

She had been so used to being an outsider; she'd never thought it would hurt like this. All her life, she had been separate from everyone else, hovering on the edge, looking for a way in. It never worked, for she was kind and smart, while all the girls at her school were silly people who never knew a great person when they saw it.

Of course, her father's kind words couldn't change the fact that she read in the library during recess and that she never got invited to sleepovers.

But now she was at an entirely new school, with entirely new classmates who hadn't known her since kindergarten as _the dentists' daughter_. And she had thought… well, she had just assumed… that it was only _logical _that someone here would be her friend.

She had hoped, anyway. But it looks like that wasn't the case

Because everyone still gave her dark looks when she raised her hand and everyone still talked about her behind her back. She still did her homework early and went to bed early, and although she tried to be nice, no one cared or appreciated her. Just like before.

She was tired of being smart. She wanted to be _brilliant_.

And so Hermione cried.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, he cries himself to sleep.<p>

No one knows this, of course. He'd never dare say the words aloud, in case they ever got back to his mother, or, even worse, his brothers._ Especially_ his brothers. They'd never let him hear the end of it.

It wouldn't be fair, of course, because he was certain that they'd cried as well. What else can you do when your best friend gets petrified?

Okay, so maybe he bickered a lot with her, and he couldn't stand how she constantly nagged him and how she mooned over their prat teacher, and – well, you get the idea. But it was all in fun, wasn't it? She knew they were still best friends. Right?

Now he wasn't so sure. Her being gone made him realise that. Not that she was really _gone_, of course, but still. Her eyes were blank and her hands were stiff and hard. In his heart, he knew she'd get better soon, and yet seeing her scared him every time. How can he remember something like that when she's lying there like – like a corpse?

He had promised to himself that he'd tell her that she was brilliant for the hundredth time when she woke up, but he wasn't sure if that was enough. And he sometimes felt as if she ever would.

And so Ron cried.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, he cries himself to sleep.<p>

It isn't like it's a secret. Everyone would expect him to, being – well, himself. He was just like that. Scared, nervous, fumbling. Even his teachers said so.

And now with a murderer running around trying to kill one of his friends, he was only more terrified. Not to mention that his friends had almost died due to a stupid mistake that he had made.

Yet another blunder to add to the always growing list.

As he watched people writing long letters, full of hopes and fears and stories, ready to send them by owl to their families, he would find himself wishing he had someone he could write to about _his _hopes, and _his_ stories. And his fears. His grandmother was absolutely out of the question. She loved him, of course, but she wouldn't understand. She would scold him and tell him to act more like his clever, brave friends, more like The Boy Who Lived.

He very nearly was The Boy Who Lived, except he hadn't done anything special. No, he was just The Boy Without Parents.

He wished he could write to his parents. Could they even write anymore? Probably not. After all, if they were able to write, then they should have been able to speak coherently. They should have been able to comfort him, to hold him and tell him things that he could believe in.

They should've been able to tell him that they loved him.

And so Neville cried.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, he cries himself to sleep.<p>

What an absurd lie. He really didn't cry himself to sleep. It was just a stupid speculation that the sneaky, lying journalist had come up with at the top of her head. She had made assumptions.

But he felt like crying.

Never before had he been under so much pressure. The tournament – even those of his friends who wanted nothing but the best for him were pushing him, desperately urging him to prepare, to study (one person in particular, really). All the rest wanted something, whether it was homework or an autograph, or even for him to cave, to give up. Yes, there were those who wanted him to break down.

He struggled to figure things out, but it was hard. There were obstacles, like the fact that breathing underwater was impossible, and there distractions, like pretty girls who were taken, and there was competition, like said pretty girl's boyfriend. He just wanted it all to be over so he could go home and get invited over to his best friend's house and dream about his crush without the constant fear of his impending death.

Now, it was over.

He had just escaped from a nightmare, where he'd fought for his life and had experienced pain beyond belief. Now, everything was upside down and dripping with salt-water and he had sworn he'd bring back the boy's body, he had promised, and here he was, and the father of the body was sobbing…

And so Harry cried.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, she cries herself to sleep.<p>

Sleep wasn't the only time she cried. She couldn't help it. She would walk down the hall and see a rose and she'd burst into tears, or someone would mention his name and she'd have to swallow it down until she had escaped to the loo. She would find herself wondering about what might've happened if he'd never put his name in that stupid goblet.

They say fifteen is too young to truly love someone, outside of the family. You can't possibly know what you really want at fifteen, her mother had said. You'll get over it.

Loving someone and being in love are two very different things, though. And she knew that she was – that she _had _been in love. And she'd seen his body dragged back from hell on earth. That was half a year ago, and she was still crying.

Yet she couldn't help feeling drawn to the very person who had been carrying his body. Drawn to his serious eyes, his courage, his leadership. She told herself that there was nothing wrong with being friends with him. Just because she'd been in love didn't mean she couldn't have friends.

But now they were alone and the room was full of mirrors, and mistletoe. He said something endearingly nervous, and she laughed. They kissed quietly, gently, hesitantly. It was lovely, but she still couldn't help thinking about _him_, and whether he'd be angry or not. Or, worse – whether he would tell her to move on, because he was never coming back.

And so Cho cried.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, she cries herself to sleep.<p>

How could she have been so completely, utterly, indefinitely stupid? She should have known he would disappoint her in the end. He was that kind of boy – the funny best friend of the hero, tall with windswept hair, a fantastic Quidditch player. The kind of boy that girls don't realise they fancy until he's taken.

And now she'd lost him.

Everyone seemed to think it was for the best, for some ridiculous reason. They seemed to not be surprised. They were all holding their breath, waiting for that moment when they'd find him and _her_ snogging in the broom closet.

When that happened, they would all applaud. And she would wince and run away, and she'd be known as that kind of girl; pretty but catty, the one who gets the boy but doesn't deserve him, the one that always loses in the end.

She had thought for sure that she'd won. She done it; she'd worked up her courage, made him notice her, and they'd kissed. He had been a bit clumsy at first, but he'd improved with practice.

And now _she _was going to get to profit from all of her hard work. Because, despite her not so attractive appearance and her horrible personality, she was simply that kind of girl – the quiet best friend of the boy who suddenly becomes beautiful, suddenly becomes appreciated, who saves the day, who kisses the boy in a whirlwind of emotion and passion and love.

She had seen this movie more times than she wanted to count. She knew what would happen in the end. She knew she'd be left lonely.

And so Lavender cried.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, they cried themselves to sleep.<p>

None of them had any idea that they weren't alone in the tears. How could have they? They were separated by distance and weather, by rules and strictures, by words. Stupid, irrevocable words.

What silly things to divide people. They should've known.

Because it isn't something that comes up in conversation, crying at night, and when it does, it's brief and spoken about as if it's something to be ashamed of. But it isn't. It's what binds us all together. Because we all cry.

She cried when the boy she loved left her, and she cried when he came back, because she'd nearly wanted to kiss his best friend while he was gone.

He cried when he swung down that sword down, and all of the doubts and fears he had were ripped apart, and he was left with nothing but bruises.

He cried when a girl he had once fancied disappeared, when his other best friend never came back to help lead the losing side in a fight they would lose.

He cried when he was delirious, when he couldn't control himself, and he could also feel the tears threatening to overflow when he received his death sentence.

She cried in frustration, when nothing was like it used to be, and she cried, for the last time, for a boy who would forever be seventeen.

She cried when she felt herself clawed apart, and she cried when everything became cold and dark and the sounds of the battle faded to background music.

Yes, they cried.

But didn't we all?

* * *

><p><strong>So, how was it? I feel really strongly about this one - I was looking through my list of prompts, and found the title of this story - and what I could with that, this idea, just literally popped into my head. I sat down and wrote for about an hour, and then I was done. But there's something about how simple his one is and yet how intricate that really makes me proud of it. It was actually surprisingly hard to write, especially in choosing the characters; Neville and Cho almost didn't make it in, Ron was almost year three, and Ginny and Molly were very nearly years two and five (I hope you guys picked up on the fact that each little section was a different year). Not to mention that, when there a few words, each one has to be precisely right. There's no room for error.<strong>

**But what did you guys think?**

**~ Cierra, **who has a two-hour delay tomorrow!


	11. Half Hearted

**Half-Hearted**

That night, Hermione took the first watch. She took it quickly, almost desperate. She was eager to get out of that tent, where the air was thick and falsely warm. Outside, everything was clear and cold and lovely.

It was as her breath turned into puffs of white that she came to terms with it. With had had just happened.

With what had almost been.

She had nearly kissed him.

It had been innocent enough at first. There was a song on the radio. A few clumsy half-waltz. A half-laugh or two.

They had just been trying to recover, trying to heal. He had left, but that didn't mean the two of them couldn't enjoy themselves. Just because he was gone didn't mean that she and him had to suffer.

Of course, that was a terrible lie, but they did their best to ignore that.

And then everything grew complicated. The music had slipped away, the song ending. They had become still.

His face had been right there, inches from her own. Everything was confused and hesitant, and the air had been full of _what ifs_.

What if he kissed her now?

What if Ron never came back?

What if she could just love him, right now?

She knew he had almost leant in. She knew she had almost responded.

His eyes weren't the right colour. She could make do.

What was she thinking?

She had pulled away from Harry. Of course she pulled away; what else could she do? She loved him, that was true, but she did she really want to love him like that? Kissing him would only make her feel worse about everything.

But would it? Hermione fidgeted on the stump of wood she and Harry had heated with magic earlier (she still somehow felt cold, though). She tried to stop herself, but she glanced back at Harry anyway, his figure silhouetted by the light of the tent. She watched as he sat down on one of the bunks, and put his head in his hands.

Loving Harry would be so easy, she found herself thinking. And, however strongly she tried to deny it, she knew it was true. It would be comfortable, sweet, and familiar. His strengths complimented her strengths, and his flaws didn't make her flaws seem any more obvious than they already were.

But _would be _and _is _are two very different things. She was being logical when she thought about Harry as a possible lover, as a possible _somebody special._ And logic and sensibility and _intelligence _have absolutely nothing to do with love.

If they did, she wouldn't be sitting out in the snow, resisting the urge to cry until spring came.

Because Ron was gone.

She took a shuddering breath, staring out through the night. Yes, logic most certainly had nothing to do with it. There were no _tangible _reasons for her to feel so strongly about him. He'd most definitely never given her any reason to love him like she did. Ron had never been the more agreeable of her two best friends. He had been the one she fought with, the one that made her grit her teeth in frustration.

Not to mention that he had made her cry more times than everyone else combined. He had, so to speak, broken her heart.

And yet…

And yet she still found her heart jumping into her throat every time she had met his eyes, and she couldn't deny the fact that everything always felt brighter and charged with fire when he'd touched her hand, even accidentally. It would be stupid, perhaps, to not think about all those times that he had made her feel so much better, and giddy, and pretty.

It would be stupid to ignore how much she loved everything about him, however insensible all the _everything_s were.

That red-hair.

The sensitivity that was endearing.

Those few but precious moments when she realised he was much cleverer than he let on.

His humour, those moments when she laughed when she really ought to be serious.

That damn fire again, lighting everything up. She needed it terribly now, she was sitting out alone in the cold, where was he –

"Hermione?" Harry's voice broke through the stillness. She jumped a little, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "You forgot your wand." His voice was blocky, chopped. He hadn't forgotten what hadn't happened.

_Her wand… _it took her a moment, and then her slow eyes registered her wand, grasped in Harry's wand. She very nearly wept. What was she coming to, where she nearly kissed her best friend and left her wand lying around? "Idiot," she hissed under her breath. How could she have been so stupid?

But she said none of this to Harry. "Thanks," she said half-heartedly.

Everything she did now was half-hearted.

Harry handed her wand down to her, and Hermione flinched when their fingers touched. She was waiting for something, _anything. _It never came. It had probably never existed.

And there it was – the reason. As Harry hurried back inside, Hermione rolled the idea around in her mind. That strange, addicting charge that seemed to pulse from Ron; or rather, the charge that the two of them were able to create, was part of the effect of the effect he had on her. Ron's strengths contrasted with her own, and his flaws clashed horribly with her faults, but that was just it, wasn't it? Harry was like her brother; she knew what he was thinking, she knew what he wanted and she knew how she thought like the back of her hand.

And while that might attract some people, it didn't work for Hermione. Nothing was right for her unless there was something she could solve, and while she got the feeling that Ron was unsolvable, maybe that was why she loved him? Ron was challenging and frustrating and so completely unlike her. It was refreshing.

She knew, even then, that loving Ron would be inexplicable and passionate and strong and invigorating and imperfect, yet perfect…

Something moved in the trees. Hermione froze, like the snow around her, her eyes sorting deftly through the quiet pockets in the night. She saw nothing suspicious, and it was probably a deer, but her imagination had been let loose now.

Suppose there were Snatchers, hiding in those trees, waiting for her or Harry to appear so they could be wrestled to the ground and humiliated…

Or Death Eaters, poised for the kill…

Or, and this was really painful for her, what if Ron was there? What if, despite all the odds, despite how ridiculous it was, he was back, and he was here, and he was sorry? What would she do if he pushed his way through her enchantments and dropped down on his knees and begged for forgiveness? What then?

Hermione didn't know what she would do. It's not like he would come walking through, anyway. She was being ridiculous. Ron had always been much too proud…

And then Hermione noticed for the first time that she was thinking about him in past tense, as if he was dead. Or just simply _gone_.

She rested her head on her knees and began to sob.

* * *

><p>Hermione hadn't known what to say, what she could possibly do, if Ron were to ever come crawling back.<p>

And now she knew. Now that was here and it was too late to plan, oh she knew.

She was angry, of course. All those shivering days and blood-stained hands had stripped away any tendency she might have had to forgive him and let him, no, _make _him, love her again. That girl had died that night in the dead of winter, and it was going to take a lot more than a few desperate words to make her wake up again.

She was relieved. More than relieved – _overjoyed_. However much she tried to hide it, it was as the weight of the world had disappeared. If he was here, that meant he wasn't _out there_, where anything could happen and she and Harry might not know for weeks on end. Hermione could finally breathe again.

She was confused. That was a given. How could one person feel so angry, so furious, and then feel so happy at the same time? If she wasn't so used to feeling like this, her head might have exploded.

She was frightened. Not just by the stories that she listened to Ron tell Harry when she pretended to sleep – about the Snatchers, about how grim and hollow everything outside of their safe little home was. She was also scared by the possibilities, by the idea that Ron had nearly been killed, that Kingsley had nearly been caught… everything was falling apart, and it terrified her.

All of these emotions, she later concluded, were only to be expected. If she hadn't been so distraught back then, she could have easily predicted how his arrival would impact her.

But guilt? That was a new one.

Late that night, Hermione woke up suddenly, feeling sick to her stomach. She sat up and got up and ran across the tent, not thinking about the shadowy inkling of an idea she had that someone else was awake, and they might be lying in their bunk, watching her run and listening to her heavy breathing.

She shoved the door to their pitiful little bathroom open and turned on the light as she passed and she kneeled down in front of the toilet and she breathed. She willed everything and everything to spill out into this water.

But nothing came.

How could she be angry with him when she had done the very thing that he was afraid of, and almost kissed his best friend?

Several moments passed, and she sat like that, breathing hard, trying not to hate herself, trying not to hate everything.

Several moments passed, and the boy who had seen her steal to the bathroom thought something along the lines of _what the hell_, and peeled back the blankets.

She heard Ron approaching, but she didn't look up, closing her eyes tightly. She didn't want to see him now. _Go away_, she pleaded silently. He didn't listen. He never did.

Another reason why she loved him.

"Hermione?" came his uncertain, half-afraid voice, walking through the darkness. She slowly looked up. His long figure was in the doorway, the opposite of a silhouette.

"Do you want to talk?" he ventured. Even though it was dark and her vision was blurred by tears unshed, she could see how this was playing out in his mind. She would hesitantly agree, and he would sit down, and they would have a heart-to-heart. She'd be in mid-sentence when he kissed her, his hand tangled in her hair, and she would kiss him back like she had before in a thousand different pretend memories. The two of them would fall asleep in this bathroom, and Harry would find them in the morning, peaceful and content and in love.

Hermione wasn't ready for that, though. Not with everything that was coursing through her and making it hard to see. Funny, how just weeks ago, her problem was that everything she did was half-hearted. Now, her heart was full to the breaking point.

It was her turn to be the challenge, the enigma.

She stood up, brushing her hands off on her sweatpants. "There's nothing to talk about," she said, and she sounded cold, distant.

Brilliant.

Hermione strode past him, and he didn't try to stop her as she walked back, tall and proud, to her bunk. Could he tell, she wondered, could he tell how much of a lie she was? The truth was that there was _everything _to talk about, too much, even. Hermione wasn't ready to forgive him.

And she wasn't ready to forgive herself.

* * *

><p><strong>Welll? This little chapter has come a long way - it started out with me trying to figure out what exactly Hermione saw in Ron. And then I figured that out, and I promptly forgot about it. And then me and my family were watching Deathly Hallows Pt 1 Maximum Movie Mode, and when they were talking about the scene when Hermione and Harry dance, this scene came to me (for those of you who have this movie on Blu-Ray, Maximum Movie Mode for both Pts of the Deathly Hallows is absolutely amazing). And then, I thought it would only be a few hundred words long, because I was really having trouble with it - and all of a sudden, lightning struck me and I wrote like a maniac. So, this was born. I really hope you guys like! Please, just let me know what you think - review, please!<strong>

**~ Cierra,** who (finally) found her cell phone 


End file.
